


Is this really how you'd like to spend your days

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, and anne is intrigued, basically phillip is in awe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 14:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: Phillip drinks.Anne flies.





	Is this really how you'd like to spend your days

W.D.’s hands are secure around her arms and she can feel the muscles in her back tightening as she wraps her legs around the trapeze and lets go. As the momentum takes her away from him, she closes her eyes and feels the wind in her hair.

The bends of her knees hurt and the pieces of cloth wrapped around her wrists are too tight, but as she swings back, W.D. catches her, his arms safe on her waist and she laughs.

She is eleven years old and trapeze is _fun_.

 

* * *

 

 

His father’s eyes are cold and hard, his fingers tight around the wide glass. “Stand up straight”, he says. “Do not forget your manners.” Phillip straightens his back and pushes his shoulders back. “Yes, father”, he says and feels like the ground might shift away from under him.

He writes conversations, at first, writes down what he hears and what he sees. He writes down dinner conversations, too. “Pass me the salt”, his mother says, after she tastes the soup and pulls a face. “Sit up straight”, his father says and cuts his meat. They do not look at each other and Phillip sips on his drink.

He is sixteen years old and pulls his writing out of whiskey and his bent back.

 

* * *

 

 

W.D. is dark, so much darker than her and the men with their eyes on her legs, on her chest, their sneers on her skin, spit at him. She clutches his arm, drags him away. “Let’s practice”, she says and pulls off her dress. He kisses the top of her head and carries her up into the air with him.

Her hands burn and her muscles strain and she wraps her legs around the rope, lets it pull her higher and higher, body attentive, rage burning behind her teeth.

W.D. catches her and it’s her turn to hold him up, now.

 

* * *

 

 

When the curtain falls after the first time his play makes it on stage, his blood rushes through his ears and it is so loud, louder than the polite applause. “I’m proud of you.” His mother smiles, wrapped into her fur coat, pearls shimmering on her neck. “So proud of you, darling.” His father says nothing. His head hurts.

The metal of the flask is cool against his lips and the melting snow on his face feels soothing, and calm. He sighs and wipes his lips.

“Mr. Carlyle? We’d like a refund.”

Phillip nods.

 

* * *

 

“People won’t like it if you put us on stage.” W.D.’s voice is quiet, and hushed and Anne bows her head.

Barnum smiles. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Her costume is tight, so tight on her skin, her legs bare, her skin on display. W.D. scowls and she smiles, combs down her hair and puts on the wig. “Like something out of a fairy tale”, her brother says and tucks a strand of her own hair under it. She kisses his knuckles.

The trapeze is higher than any they’ve ever trained on and Anne wraps herself in rope and cloth and flies.

 

* * *

 

He sees her and the world stands still.

It shrinks down to cotton candy coloured hair and dark eyes and hands stretched out towards him. He takes off his hat and feels as if he might fall to his knees.

The momentum drags her away from him and his breath comes back

“Who was that?”, he asks and Barnum smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

She towers over him and stretches her muscles. His name is Phillip Carlyle and he barely spares W.D. a glance. Instead, he looks at her and smiles. She cocks her head. “What’s your act?”, she asks and expects his glance to wander down her chest, her legs. He keeps his eyes on hers when he replies and she smiles.

“Everyone’s got an act.”

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Phillip writes about pink hair and dark eyes and muscles moving under dark skin. He doesn’t touch his whiskey.

 

* * *

 

 

Anne takes off her wig and drapes her brown shawl over her shoulders. “What do you think of the rich boy?”, she asks and Lettie shrugs as she applies her lipstick. “I don’t trust him”, she says and Anne hums.

She thinks about his eyes, trained on her face and his mouth fitted around awe. She smiles.


End file.
